


Echoes and Preconceptions

by the_genderman



Series: Trans Bucky 'Verse [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Asexual Character, Coming Out, F/F, Flowery Prose, Misunderstandings, POV Natasha Romanov, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Pre-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Trans Bucky Barnes, Trans Female Character, mid-fic pronoun change
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-21
Updated: 2017-07-21
Packaged: 2018-12-04 21:04:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11563311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_genderman/pseuds/the_genderman
Summary: First: Yes, the category is properly tagged.Second: I'm attempting to use way fancier writing than I usually do, I hope it works.Third: Have an excerpt.“...And even if you are eroding away parts of your life, maybe they’re parts that need to be worn away. You are my shore and I am your sea. The sea doesn’t love the shore any less if the stones turn to sand. Tell me.”





	Echoes and Preconceptions

They had talked about it, late one December night as they shared a sleeping bag. The thin hours when the tongue brought forth words halfway between confession and prophesy. She had run her fingers through his hair, tucking the loose strands behind his ear so she could kiss his temple and pull him closer, pressing against his back. 

“You love me,” she had said, a statement of fact.

“I do,” he had murmured in response, eyes closed and a soft smile on his lips.

“You know who I am, who I was, who I was expected to be— _what_ I was expected to be. You know my name, my title. My epithet, in all of its definitions.”

“I do. And you know mine, what I was built to be. Fabricated, in all of _its_ definitions.”

“And you know the pain of breaking out of that shell, climbing out through the shards of yourself, when each step feels like it will cut you to the bone. But you have to keep going, let it bleed you until all of the lies, all of the half-truths, all of the distortions have been wrung out of you.”

“I do. Oh, I do.”

“I love you too, or as close to love as they left me capable of feeling. I love you. Not as a Black Widow would have loved you, a zealous, fast-burning, visceral love. No, that kind of love, if it ever was love, is behind me. I love you like I am the tides and you are the shore. They say that the ocean is cold and deep and deadly, with no need for the land. It returns to the warm sands regardless. But…” She had twined her fingers through his, flesh and bone against steel and circuits.

“There’s always a ‘but’,” he had said, bringing their hands up so he could kiss her knuckles.

“There always is. Such is life.”

“Take life as it comes, or take life and build what you want.”

“I’m fairly happy with what we’re building, here.”

“Only fairly happy?” he had asked, a sleepy laugh in his voice.

“Well, there’s a few things you don’t know about me yet. I might be happier once I’ve told you,” she had said.

“Just a _few_?” he had asked.

She had given him a poke to the ribs for that.

“Ok, ok. I’ll be serious now. What’s bothering you?”

“Since you and I both seem bound and determined to find happiness in each other, I thought you should know. I’m asexual. I know, surprising, isn’t it? A Black Widow who didn’t enjoy sex couldn’t possibly have been very good at her job, could she have? Oh, but that was why I was the best. Because it was only a job. I took pleasure in completing my assignments, not in the means of completion. By whatever means necessary, and so it was.”

“You don’t owe me anything, you know. I’m happy with what we have. I still have a long way to go before I could call myself comfortable with my body again. Everything it is, everything it was, everything it would or could or should be. I’m finding it a little hard to reconcile all the things I’ve been with the things I hope I might someday deserve to be. And to be honest, that’s put quite a damper on my sex drive. I couldn’t even tell you if it’ll ever return.”

“It won’t be a problem?” she had asked.

“You could never be a problem,” he had said, kissing her fingers again.

Entwined together in a velvet comfort neither would believe that they deserved, they slept.

\----------------------------

He had said it wouldn’t be a problem and she had believed him.

She found it, lost, cast aside, forgotten, in the shower. Dangling haphazardly from the soap caddy, behind the shower curtain. Hidden from view unless you stood at just the right angle at the sink and caught the contrast of black against cracked pink tiles. Curious, she pulled the curtain aside and extracted the item. She sat on the lid of the toilet, legs leaden, rooted in place, a black lace bra hanging from her outstretched fingers. It was _not_ one of hers. She stared at it, willing it to explain itself. 

It had been nine months since she had found him in New York. Six months since they had drifted into a relationship. Four months since she had come out as asexual. Two months since they had parted. Two months since they had kissed at the bus station just past midnight, had said their fond farewells and until we meet agains. They had spoken on the phone, but hadn’t seen each other in person since February. A lot could happen in two months.

In nine months James had become so much more comfortable with touch. In the beginning, he would flinch away from even the gentlest accidental touches, naked fear on his face. It had taken slow, careful work to coax him out of his armor, to show him that the world wasn’t quite as cruel as he had been taught. Brief, hesitant touches, fingers barely grazing hers, became tolerating her pressing her leg against his on the narrow sofa, became leaning longingly back into her touch as she combed her fingers through his hair. Then came the kissing and the confessing. And what if this was because of her? What if he had decided, in some messy interpretation of chivalry, that he was sparing her, or doing her a favor by finding someone else with whom to explore his returning sexuality? If she hadn’t told him she was asexual, would he have waited for her? 

She closed her eyes and let her hand fall, bra strap still twisted around her finger. She’d have to leave the bathroom eventually; he was probably getting suspicious of how long she had been sequestered. She balled her hand into a fist, fingers bruising the soft cup of the bra. Part of her knew that a nice bra like this was delicate and expensive, but she didn’t want to take her resentment out on James. He probably thought he was doing the right thing. She didn’t want to know, but she _had_ to know.

She stood, head high, not ashamed of who she was. She turned the knob, pulled the door open, and walked out into the apartment.

James looked up from his perch on the couch, book in hand. The smile evaporated from his face when he saw what she was holding. The book slipped from his fingers, falling to the floor. He made no move to catch it, utterly frozen.

“I don’t need an apology, I don’t need a rationalization, I don’t even need to know who she is. All I want is to hear it from you,” she said slowly. “Did you sleep with her because I’m asexual?”

“It’s not what you think,” he stuttered. He got to his feet, crossing the small room nearly instantly. He took her hands hesitantly in his. 

“Then tell me. What is it?” she asked. She squeezed his fingers gently, letting him know that she would hear him out.

“There’s no ‘other woman,’ Natashenka, I promise you. But…” he hesitated. “The truth is more complicated than that. I almost wish there was someone else, it would simplify things.”

She stared at him, searching his eyes for the truth or lies in his words. 

“Then tell me. Just don’t tell me that it’s a gift for me, because even if you don’t know my exact size, I’m pretty sure you wouldn’t pick out a bra quite as large as this one for me. The band looks large enough to fit _you_ ,” she said, trying to lighten the mood a little.

James averted his eyes, face suddenly flushed. Natasha felt a tremor in his flesh hand. 

“It is,” he said, so quietly she barely caught the words.

Whatever irritation she had left melted away.

“What is it?” she asked, much more gently. “You can tell me. I’m sorry I got upset.”

“No, no, don’t apologize. You had every reason.”

“No, we’re not going to turn this into an ‘I’m sorry,’ ‘No, I’m sorry.’ Please. When you said ‘it is,’ what did you mean by that?”

“It _is_ large enough to fit me. It… it’s mine. I bought it about a month ago. I thought I might be ready, but it just sat in my drawer, teasing me. Telling me that if I never wear it, then I’m lying to myself, but if I do, then I’m lying to the world, trying to hide from my past. Last night I finally put it on for the first time, just stood there, seeing myself in the mirror for the first time, and everything became suddenly _real_. Unfortunately, ‘real’ can also be terrifying, so when my phone rang, I took it off as quickly as I could and shoved it the first place I could think to get it out of sight. I forgot to put it away before you arrived. And,” a half laugh, mostly an exhalation of air from the nose, “you know just how well that worked out.”

Natasha’s breath caught with the sudden realization. It made sense now, but she didn’t want to assume. She had assumed once tonight already.

“I think… I think I understand, but if you could tell me, in your words,” she coaxed.

“Are you sure you want to hear this? For the entire time I’ve been with you, you’ve seen me one way, and now that’s changing, eroding away.”

“To say you haven’t changed would be doing yourself a great disservice. I have watched you unearth parts of you long-buried that had been starved for air and light and kindness, watched them unfurl and grow strong. You took a broken façade and rebuilt it. And even if you are eroding away parts of your life, maybe they’re parts that need to be worn away. You are my shore and I am your sea. The sea doesn’t love the shore any less if the stones turn to sand. Tell me.”

“I want…” hesitating, trying to draw out the reluctant words. “Natasha, I want to be a woman.”

“If you want to be a woman, then you are a woman.”

“Looking like this?” she scoffed, holding her hands out in a mocking ecce homo, behold the man. 

“Of course,” Natasha replied firmly. “I understand your concern, but if you say you are, then you _are_. The outside will match the inside in time, I know it will.”

“You don’t mind? You won’t mind being with a woman?”

“I’m not in a relationship with just _anyone_ , man or woman, I’m in a relationship with _you_. And you _know_ that I’m not just in it for the sex,” Natasha added with a chuckle.

“Very true,” she laughed back.

“I don’t suppose I should call you James anymore.”

“If you would, please. I haven’t settled on a new name yet, but for the time being, not James, and not Bucky either.”

“I can certainly do that. And if you’d like to slip into something more comfortable, I’ve got my laptop and some DVDs and we can just stay in all day and watch movies together.”

“I like that idea.”

**Author's Note:**

> Now that I have a little more fanfic experience under my belt, I'm revisiting an idea I had for trans woman Bucky (although she doesn't go by Bucky, there's the name recognition on this side of the screen). There will probably be future fics in this 'verse. Maybe not in such flowery prose, but they'll probably happen in some form or another.


End file.
